Stern ruin's plough-share drives elate Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, HAFEZ. ODE III. THY form has a resistless grace, And gladness is thy dwelling-place, Ah, soft enslaver of our minds! "Tis from thy pleasing wantonness, From those sweet lips I sweetly press, fond heart contentment finds. That my Mild is thy nature, gentle maid, In the fresh bow'r of early spring; Must its own cypress proudly bring! Thy coyness, which affects to frown, Thy playful sports, thy cheek of down, And the dear mole that on it lies; Thine eye, thine eye-brow's arch so true, Thy step majestic to the view All with delight my soul surprise! The rose-bow'rs of my thoughts, from thee, Breathe perfume from thy jasmine hair. In Love's perplexing path, I know, Man never yet found safe retreat; But thou hast pow'r so much to charm, That, heedless of each future harm, I dare its utmost rage to meet. What, though before thy face I die, I feel not Sorrow's painful wound: I look upon thy glowing cheek; And the sole blessing that I seek Is in thy matchless beauty found. In quest of thee, though to my sight Oppressive toil, and wild affright, The desert of research present, Expecting he may find thee there, Still Hafez, unsubdued by care, Keeps on his weary way content. SLANDER, A VISION. BY COTTON. INSCRIBED TO MISS My Y lovely girl, I write for you, And pray believe my Visions true; They'll form your mind to ev'ry grace; They'll add new beauties to your face: And, when old-age impairs your prime, You'll triumph o'er the spoils of time. Childhood and youth engage my pen ; 'Tis labour lost to talk to men: Youth may perhaps reform when wrong; Age will not listen to my song. He who at fifty is a fool, Is far too stubborn grown for school. What is that vice which still prevails, When almost ev'ry passion fails; |